Death on a rock
by d0us
Summary: A disgraced commander hopes to recover his honour. A young soldier wants to survive so he can fight again


Ok. This is chapter 1 of my Camp Gibralter story which I hope will become the first of of my Africa trilogy. Comments welcome! Not much action I guess, more like a preamble for the main battle.

BTW I do not own the rights to Battlefield 2142 name or any in-game character/vehicle name.

The two characters Doukaev and Lightfoot are of my creation and the story is mine but is based on a timeline gathered from the official Battlefield 2142 timeline

Death on a Rock

Chapter 1

0530 hours, April 10, 2142/ Aboard PAC catamaran sea transport _Narodnichestvo_, Private quarters of Lt. Colonel Doukaev, Commander of the Combined Northern AA command Divisions, 2km from the coast of Sicily.

"Take out their radar system. Then rendezvous with Alpha team south east of the EU central camp here…" a calloused forefinger tapped at the bottom right of the map of the EU base, lit by a solitary lamp on Lieutenant Colonel Doukaev's desk. "Our air strikes couldn't touch the radar but we took out the old refugee bunkers they turned into storage depots. But Intel tells us there's still activity in that area." The forefinger was now outlining the ragged edges of a grey moustache, "It's vital you take that radar out as soon as possible, or our boys on the beach will be sitting ducks."

The slender old man, delicately but purposefully, reclined back into his chair and into the shadows of his quarters. A plume of white smoke obscured the view of the map, as the commander exhaled whilst chewing on a rancid Turkish cigar. History attests to the fact that Turkish tobacco always stank of shit; but a Turkish cigar made out of tobacco leaves thawed under tonnes of steaming horseshit, because the land of its origin now resembles the frozen plains of Siberia of four hundred years back, produces a stench only real soldiers can bear: well schooled as they are in taking in the stench of scorched flesh.

Doukaev's family history with Mother Russia was intimate but strained. On his desk beside the lamp was no picture of current or former spouses, of children or siblings. Rather a simple wooden framed portrait of an old 19th century Dagestani warrior, Imam Shamil, from whom Doukaev claims descent. Shamil rose up against Emperor Alexander II's imperial ambitions in the Caucasus. Even though the rebellion was crushed the fearsome reputation of Shamil and his men spread. Since then their descendants have been the backbone of the Soviet army's commando forces, as well as formidable rebels from Russia after the former's dissolution. After the formation of the Pan Asian Coalition headed by Russia- sometime a mother in need, sometime a wench to be rid of; petty skirmishes over arid ice ridden earth now seemed meaningless, and Doukaev's countrymen vowed to become protectors of Soviet redux once again.

Doukaev meditated on the map and chewed on his cigar some more. A career soldier, he rose up the ranks to Lieutenant Colonel before the current standoff began in 2138. At the beginning of the war he held a wartime commission of Field Marshall, after leading the first successful incursion into Europe, while General Muunokhoi drew the EU forces south. The clumsy and empty victory at Cerbere however, unstuck his field promotion.

He wasn't bitter, he was a fighter, he would be happy manning a sentry tower as a private if that meant bringing honour on him and his people. What pissed him off was that they didn't listen to him at Cerbere, and if they had given him the extra air support he needed maybe they wouldn't have to reconfigure the Northern command, having had its forward group completely decimated.

He remembered all too vividly how snow capped mountains became blood red peaks that day. PAC finally pushed through into the enemy base while they were being picked off by the EU's most notorious unit- the 'Hell Brigade', composed entirely of American refugees. Only sheer human numbers secured PAC victory. The commander of thedefeated army demanded that his victor meet him in his HQ at the top of Cerbere's summit to receive his surrender.

He recalled that the Ocelot carrying him and his officers couldn't go further up the hill because of the number of bodies strewn across the pathway. Doukaev and his subordinates had to literally climb over the frozen corpses of his own men in order to confirm their own victory. Once he reached the summit the old man that thought he had seen all there is of the horror of war turned around to face a vista that looked like a patch blanket sewn together from human limbs. The defeated EU 'Hell Brigadier' stood to attention with his EO held behind him at gunpoint. Doukaev couldn't hide his horror and disgust as he looked into his counterpart's eyes. The other man spat on the floor and chuckled "It's like Hamburger fucking Hill all over again…only this time it was Charlie that got mowed the fuck down". Doukaev didn't have a clue what that meant. He didn't care. He just pulled out his pistol and with one shot to the head, signalled to the rest of his remaining forces to hunt down and show no mercy to any surviving EU soldier left in Cerbere.

With that shot Doukaev sealed his fate to commanding missions not fit even for a third rate Major. It was bad enough that he had embarrassed the Muscovy old guard by highlighting their errors, but carrying out a massacre on unarmed men after one of the biggest battles in the war didn't make him good PR material to prospective PAC allies.

The Colonel was relegated to organising a phoney attack on Gibralter while the Southern Command amassed for a massive assault into the rest of Africa from Egypt. Gibralter held no strategic value: the rock was home to a near deserted EU base. But Doukaev knew if he didn't hit this hard- if he didn't make the EU forces _notice_ and come to defend their island; a mainland attack was doomed. He didn't give a flying fuck if this was a demotion or not- victory is crucial, and he'll do his duty. The enemy force may be small there, but Intel confirms that EU reinforcements from Algiers were on their way. To make matters worse the entire camp is sniper heaven, and the young man in front of him has just landed the job of leading the forlorn hope right into its heart.

From the shadows slid out a shot glass already filled with vodka. An open palm met the glass on the other end of the table. 1st Lieutenant Thomas Lightfoot wrapped his fist around the shot glass and with one swift movement gulped the entire contents without a flinch. He continued to study the map with eyes of a seasoned warrior that betrayed his years of twenty-three. Lightfoot cannot speak of any intimate love/ hate relationship with PAC or its forbears. His parents were British and he was sure relatives that he has never met are fighting for the EU forces. If he had already met any, he would have been their killer.

Lightfoot was born in Dubai, once upon a time a miracle of uncapped capital that literally mushroomed from the desert only to die a death as a lawless and cruel cesspit of raw criminality that transformed it into an 18th century port city cliché. Lightfoot's great great grandfather came to Dubai at the end of the 21st century and set himself up as a profitable architect, designing skyscrapers that seemingly constructed themselves overnight. His sons tapped into the frustration of the monied expats living under a strict Islamic emirate and made a killing in bootleg alcohol and synthetic narcotics. Eventually the Lightfoot family became the most powerful criminal family from Dubai to Japan. But then the world, and in the case of PAC occupied Dubai, Hell, froze over. And PAC didn't give a fuck who your father or great grandfather was.

Thomas Lightfoot didn't care about the history or the rights and wrongs of the world. He enjoyed army life and his potential was spotted at bootcamp. After an accelerated program at officer cadet school in Kabul he was sent back to his birthplace in the Persian Gulf from where PAC launched its offensive into Europe. He spent most of Minsk and Verdun in a Titan air transport ship overseeing its external defence. His expertise in anti aircraft defence led to his swift transfer to the 5th AA Command Division in Egypt, readying for a massive African invasion. At the last minute the 5th was transferred to the Northern Command in Sicily to replenish its numbers after heavy losses at Cebere. Lightfoot smiled at the irony of being transferred to AA command on the eve of its first mass infantry assault.

Once on the catamaran sea transport he was assigned as squad leader of Foxtrot squad. There was a general briefing given by Captain Limonov for all officers at 0400. Now the old relic in front of him was giving him more detailed instructions.

"Yes sir" was his automatic response.

"Then you hold what remains of those supply depots at the rendezvous."

"Yes sir".

"Squads Beta through Echo will be bringing up the rear."

"Understood sir."

Doukaev couldn't make out the expression on the blond boy's face….it wasn't fear, it wasn't resignation either…two expressions on officers' faces he was used to. "What's on your mind soldier?" The unexpected enquiry knocked Lightfoot out of his daze, "Sir?...oh I was just thinking" Lightfoot's broken Russian could convey basic meaning and precise orders, but he was stumped when trying to articulate his gut feelings about missions. "After the rendezvous, do we assist the other squadrons in the central camp?"

"If they make it through there, they won't need you're help. You're orders are to hold the base. The enemy _will _come back for it. Use your snipers to hold them off like they'll be using their own to pick off our boys coming in from the rear." The finality in the last statement gave Lightfoot the green light to get up.

The old man rose from his seat, Lightfoot stood to attention. The commander grinned and waved his hand dismissively "At ease soldier…you don't have to prove anything to me here. It's on the battlefield...that's where it counts."

"Yes…..sir". With that the young lieutenant left the old man's quarters.

He liked the boy, and even at this ancient age Doukaev can't help but stand in awe when in the presence of walking. Talking . Dead. Men.


End file.
